


An American in Paris

by fitzchivalry



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: F/M, Mostly freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-03 20:54:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 16,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10257998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fitzchivalry/pseuds/fitzchivalry
Summary: Jeannie is Gabriel Agreste's newest star stylist from across the pond, and she honestly doesn't care much for Ladybug and Chat Noir. She hasn't been paying much attention to Paris's heroes in the news, nor does she really care to. All she wants is to simply work in peace, but it seems like they just won't leave her alone as she somehow finds herself constantly in the line of fire. Meanwhile, she's trying to help along a talented junior designer whose work honestly deserves much more credit, if she only could learn to retain her motor functions around the models...A peripheral look at the lives of Ladybug and Chat Noir from an exasperated American who is so done with all this superhero bullshit.





	1. Premier Tableau: "Brother if you can’t paint in Paris, you better give up and marry the boss’s daughter”

                _“…ybug et leur dernier triomphe, convenablement ici à l’Arc de Triomphe. Pour le prochain segment, qui est le Papillon et pourquoi fait-il ça? En direct, avec Aly–“_

 

I turned the television off with a sigh. I’d heard a lot about Paris’s resident heroes ever since I’d announced the move to France and I was frankly a little tired of it already. Honestly, it seemed like a bit of a publicity stunt; get a pretty couple to prance around the city saving the day – oh, how romantic! And the tourists come flocking in droves. Performance art, but the whole city got to participate. It was a great idea, I had to admit.

I looked back towards the mannequin that _Agreste_ had sent to the hotel for me and tried to picture it in glossy red polka dots. Of course, it had already been done – well, _tried_ , at the very least. _Lacoste_ had put out a Ladybug et Chat Noir themed sports clothes line and aggressively marketed it at teens and young adults.

They sold well initially out of the novelty, I think… but something about trying to copy those suits just eluded them. The Chat Noir black was too stuffy, too weirdly shiny, the Ladybug spots were too large, the outfit too cold, and – you get the idea. They looked good on paper, at least. But anybody with eyes could see how wrong they looked. _Totalement désastreux!_ That’s how the headline ran, anyhow. Nobody’s tried it since.

My phone buzzed, and I was distracted out of my musings. Maybe the apartment the company had promised me was ready?

I looked. Nope; just Sarah.

 

9:51pm

 **Sarah:** jeannie!!!! omg i saw the last headline you were like RIGHT THERE you could have met LADYBUG DID YOU MEET LADYBUG AHHHHHH. Mom says hi btw

 

I smiled despite myself. To be seventeen again! I idly scratched at my thigh. I really needed to shave before my first day at work.

 

 **Jeanne:** I saw it on tv. The crazy purple guy with a vacuum cleaner didn’t kill me, by the way. Just in case you guys were worried

 **Sarah:** of course ur fine, dummy. ladybug and chat noir were there. hooooly shit you NEED to get me autographs please please please

 

I sighed again. I honestly didn’t see why people were so obsessed with them. Sarah wouldn’t stop talking about them.

 _Ladybug has a literally indestructible yo-yo! Chat Noir can jump over a three-story building! Ladybug can lift a school bus!_ Please. It was like a repeat of her Chuck Norris joke phase.

She even… what was the word she used? _Cosplayed_ as them. She begged me to help her make a Ladybug suit for a month when she found out I was going to Paris. I naturally refused.

To my great horror, I later found her in her room _massacring_ some of my fabric.

“…red velvet. Really, Sarah? I’m uh, pretty sure that’s not what Ladybug is wearing.”

She pouted. “I knowwwwww but I thought it looked pretty?”

Well, it _had_ been, until she’d cut it into… rectangles? Trapezoids? I didn’t even want to go there. I was trying to be gentle with her, but–

“Sarah, that… that’s _definitely_ not even the right shade of red.”

"...really?"

"Really."

She made her puppy dog eyes at me and I finally caved. She promised she would help, but ended up raiding my closet and trying on all the most hideous combinations of wigs and accessories instead.

“You know, we usually make the junior designers do this stuff,” I said to her grumpily. I wasn’t even a designer. Stylist. Big difference, but not to a little sister.

She jumped out of the closet with a toupee, horn-rimmed glasses, and an awful white suit jacket from an early botched line that I’d worked on at Ralph Lauren ages ago. I laughed out loud when I saw her – the picture of a miniature Gabriel.

“Oh I see,” she said imperiously, chin out and hands clasped firmly behind her back,

“You think this pile of… _stuff_ , has nothing to do with you. You’re trying to tell the world you’re too serious to care about the clothes you put on your back.”

“Okay Sarah you can’t just butcher Meryl Streep like that.”

“…and it’s sort of comical how you think you’ve made a choice that exempts you from working on _my god damn Ladybug outfit.”_

“I’m sitting on your bed stitching your outfit while you monologue at me, Sarah.”

“…fight me bro.”

 

It turned out pretty well, in the end. Sarah made a very cute Ladybug, and she was over the roof about it. She posted some pictures on social media, and said we got some rave reviews. I took her word for it - she started managing my Instagram when she'd started high school ( _'yo jeannie you're literally useless at the internet I promise I'll just keep it the boring vanilla stuff')_ and I promptly never checked it again. Well, I'd never checked it in the first place, but I suppose there was content on there now.

Really made me wonder at how _Lacoste_ 's designing crew had messed up so badly, though. It wasn't THAT hard of a stitch.

 

My phone buzzed again, and I looked back down.

 **Sarah:** … jeannniiieeeee? autographs. Pl0xxxx

 **Jeanne:** I will if I get the chance to see them up close! Don’t get your hopes up though, I probably won’t get out that much for a while until I’ve settled in at work.

 **Sarah:** yoooooo but I’m like hella pretty sure ladybug knows her fashion. like

 **Sarah:** <https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dQw4w9WgXcQ>

**Sarah:** she says Gabriel is her fave in this interview mAYBE SHE KNOWS WHO U ARE I bet she’d be down to meet u

 **Sarah:** and speaking of which u better remember to say hi to Adrien for me ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

 **Jeanne:** …first of all Sarah, that’s from seven years ago, how do you find this stuff??

 **Sarah:** jeannie have u never used the internet before

 **Jeanne:** And I’m not pursuing anybody who’s going to be working under me! We have been over this!

 **Sarah:** but dat ASS

 **Jeanne:** Yes, very famous, very paparazzi-filled ass

 **Sarah:** …oh god ew that is literally the worst image

 **Jeanne:** Overflowing, Sarah.

 **Sarah:** JEANNIE SSTOP

 **Jeanne:** You know incontinence is actually not too uncommon. I’ve seen it backstage before. More than once, now that I come to think of it.

 **Sarah:** FINNEE no paparazzi-infested bfs just plz stop I don’t want to hear about it

 **Jeanne:** I’ll get you the pretty model’s autograph, don’t worry. I have to get ready for bed though, I’m going to try to get there early tomorrow.

 **Sarah:** …okie night  <3<3

 

* * *

 

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRINGGGGGGGGG!

I flailed around in the dark and knocked my alarm clock off the nightstand and onto the floorboards, where it continued to ring. I quietly ran through my entire repertoire of curses in English, then French, and dragged myself out of bed to face the music.

This was probably one of my worse ideas. I’d bought an actual double bell alarm clock in the interest of trying to wake up earlier than nine, and I was regretting it already. The stupid clock read 6:30am. Did I really set it that early? I promptly pushed the dial forward half an hour for the future.

I took a long shower, trying to wake myself up in vain, and drearily stepped into the closet to pick something out to wear. As the newest stylist, it was absolutely critical I did this right; the whole of your artistic aesthetic could be determined by what you wore to work. If you didn’t pay attention to your own wear, how could you care for your lines?

Gabriel Agreste’s last collection had been an exploration of Oriental-French fusion. _Mystères du monde_ , he’d called it. I remember liking the ladies’ wear quite a bit – robes woven into chemises with lots of colorful patterns. It was pretty successful, more so than usual – Gabriel tended to set the tone for the year, but I’d seen copies of the robe-chemise from literally every company this time around. Imitation is the highest flattery, especially in fashion.

He hadn’t hired me to do any of that, though. He hadn’t said so in as many words, but Gabriel was particularly famous for brevity. Well, more accurately, silent disapproval. The trick was to watch his actions and figure out what he wanted without having to resort to asking. In this case, he had fired a designer and two stylists, and mailed a wax-sealed, handwritten letter to me overseas with just four words and a phone number: _Double your current salary. 011-33, XX-XX-XX-XX-XX_

Maybe not so much to go on, but I tried to read between the lines. Evidently Gabriel was unhappy with his talent; were they stuck on the old patterns? I loved the _Agreste_ chemise myself but surely they didn’t try to do the same thing this year? Probably the most telling thing was that he chose a New Yorker to replace them. My work last year was a lot more tight and geometric. I’d have to wait and see what designs he sent me before knowing for sure, but as for today…

I settled on something conventionally professional for the most part – slacks and a nice shirt under a sharp jacket from the last line I’d worked on – but with a color scheme referencing Gabriel’s last line for the chemise and a crisscrossing bracer. Lots of angles for my own aesthetic and a professional nod: I’d safely covered all my angles, so to speak. (I instinctively rolled my eyes at myself. _Sarah would get a kick out of that one._ )

I took my time with breakfast and putting my face on before glancing at the clock.

8am. Still too early for me. But planned. I took the elevator down and stepped outside.

 

…aaaand was promptly met with sunshine and screaming.

 

…

“I AM THE EARLY BIRD AND I **FUCKING HATE MONDAY MORNINGS**!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact. i have literally never done any creative writing prior to this moment. Constructive criticism is welcome!
> 
> I know very little about fashion so much what I write will likely be quite approximate – rest assured though, I am making an attempt, which my google search history will attest to. We actually have a family friend that is a retired executive from a major brand and I picked up a tiny smattering from her about the industry (which was alternatively inspiring and terrifying); as you might imagine though, it’s as complicated and in-depth of an artistic occupation as any. In any case: I will try to write and interpret what I do know with some semblance of reality, but forgive me if it's just totally wrong.
> 
> I'm currently on spring break from university, so this story is just a little bit of an escapade from my normal venue of expression. I’m an artist by trade, but in a totally different field - I've met and observed quite a few amazing professional artists in my time at school (and holy hell do the great ones operate by different rules), and this fic is just a little attempt on my part at getting into their headspace.  
> I do have a rough outline I'm following, and I'll keep writing as long as I'm still having fun!
> 
> Let me know if it gets a little bogged down – I can get pretty detail-obsessed. Hope you enjoy!  
> -M


	2. Deuxième tableau: “They might be saying the same stuff over here, but it sounds better in French.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The door to the stairway burst open and a girl with jet black pigtails came rushing through, redfaced and panting. I sat up immediately; her jacket was cut exactly the way I had been trying to remember. She froze, an apology obviously on the tip of her tongue going unvoiced when she saw Gabriel addressing the whole floor. Her eyes darted between him and me – Gabriel’s brow turned downwards, and mine up.  
> “Please, don’t let us keep you, Mlle. Cheng,” he intoned, expressionless.

“I AM THE EARLY BIRD AND I **FUCKING HATE MONDAY MORNINGS**!”

_Are you serious._

“IF I’M GETTING WOKEN UP BEFORE EIGHT, THEN SO ARE YOU!!!”

_Are. You. Fucking. Serious._

I remember a couple years back when Sarah had discovered punk rock, Avril Lavigne, and purple eyeliner, in that order. If a middle-aged suburban mom had made that discovery now… yeah that’s what this akuma looked like. She was perched on a two-story townhouse across from the hotel, with what looked like a vulture mask adorning her face.

“GO, MY MINIONS. MAKE THEM ALLLLL WAKE UP”

I was honestly too busy gawking at the lady’s ripped bell-bottom cargo jeans and denim jacket (which had wings made of… also denim?) and missed the rest of her monologue. Was she zapping people with a… spatula?

It was only when her gaze landed on me that I realized that I probably should have read the _Guide Touristique aux Akumas_ brochure that the hotel had left propped up on the coffee table in my room. Or paid attention to the flight attendant’s ‘ _Annonce important concernant les Akumas”_ on the flight over. Or just looked literally anything up about Akumas on the internet before I came here.

Because, watching an army of sleepy Parisians brandish spatulas at me, I was having some serious doubts about the sanity of the city’s citizens.

_There had to have been some sort of… safe word? Or gesture, or something, to opt out of this?_

I struggled to remember anything helpful. There had to have been something. I had negative interest in participating in the city’s _bizarro_ public art project.

Early Bird leapt down off the building, and glided over to me, Cirque du Soleil style. It was pretty impressive for someone her age, I have to say.

“YOU LOOK LIKE YOU’RE ENJOYING THE MORNING TOO MUCH. I BET YOU THINK **EVERYONE** SHOULD WAKE UP THIS EARLY, YOU PRETENTIOU–“

“Listen lady,” I cut in. “I really don’t have any interest in doing this with you. I hate the mornings too, and I’m already awake anyways – why don’t you bother all the sleeping people in the hotel behind me instead?”

I tried to walk off and Early Bird’s eyes flashed purple as she grabbed my right arm in a painful vicegrip.

“YOU DARE. I THINK YOU NEED TO SUFFER AS MUCH AS I AM.”

I was getting a little alarmed at this point.

 _Parisians take city pride WAY too seriously_.

My left arm grasped down into my jacket as I frantically tried to defuse the bird lady.

“I promise you, I am suffering. It will be much more satisfying to make someone else suffer. Please stop,” I said, as my hand brushed against keys, lipstick, wallet…

“OH NO, YOU WILL BE MINE, AS SOON AS YOU LOOK AT THIS SPATU – AGHHHHHHHHHHHHH–”

…pepper spray, aha! I grabbed the can, looked away, and went to town.

“–GHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH,” she howled. “MY EYES!”

Thankfully her minions seemed too distracted by her convulsions to pay attention to me as I quickly speedwalked away. I turned the corner, and paused to straighten out my coat before heaving a sigh.

_What a nightmare. They need some regulation for this stupid project._

I’d just crossed an intersection walking towards _Av. des Champs-Élysées_ (distant, soft screams accompanying me) when a flash of glossy black caught my eyes from above. I looked up to find a wide-eyed, masked blonde staring at me with unabashed curiosity from atop a Bistro Romain. He looked mildly confused; head tilted and brow half-furrowed.

I rolled my eyes and walked on, although I did take note of the way his suit’s leather cut towards the belt. Very interesting. I pulled out my phone; I was tempted to take a picture, but decided it would be impolite. And it would infuriate Sarah. So I just sent her a brief, nonchalant text – she wouldn’t get it until she woke up in five or six hours, but it would be worth it for the reaction later.

8:20am

 **Jeannie:** You know, pepper spray is an effective Akuma deterrent. I think Chat Noir was feeling a little useless today.

 

…

1:45pm

 **Sarah** : JEANNIE WHAT THE FUCKKKKKKKKKKK!!?!1?

 

* * *

 

 _Avenue des Champs-Élysées_ was a wonderful street. Boutiques and restaurants lined the route for a mile, bookended by the _Arc de Triomphe_ and the _Champs-Élysées_ gardens. _La plus belle avenue du monde_ did not disappoint. I’d thoroughly enjoyed living nearby for the past week, and Nathalie had promised me an apartment suite even closer than my hotel was to the street. I had taken plenty of photos for Sarah and she was already smitten. If all went well with _Agreste_ , she was going to apply for school in Paris and come live there with me. (Well, she’d already applied anyhow. _‘u gonna be fine, doofus PARIS BABY HERE I COME’_ )

Sarah and I are ten years apart, but we both function pretty poorly without each other, to be honest. Any kind of emotional stability has to have a thick foundation somewhere, you know? A year without her tagging along with me is going to be weird, even if she just substitutes digital presence for physical.

Anyways, she had posted all her favorite photographs that I’d sent her online, and gleefully listed off all the models who had liked them for me.

It was with this thought accompanying my stroll that I arrived at _Agreste_ _Paris_ headquarters. I introduced myself to the officer manning the desk, Officer Raincomprix. The poor man seemed a little slow – I tried to wave myself in but he insisted on checking my badge and painstakingly re-entering my details on paper. I shoved down a sigh and tried to be patient. I idly noticed that his shirt and pants were different shades of blue.

_That can’t be right._

“Date of birth?” he asked.

“It’s on the badge, sir.” He squinted and turned the plastic card back and forth. I gave up.

“Twenty-ninth of April. Eighty-nine.”

_Fuck, I’m old._

“Ah, sorry about that. The eyes are giving up on me,” Officer Raincomprix said amiably. I instantly felt bad about being impatient. Once upon a time, I’d made fun of Sarah for frequently misspelling and misreading stuff. Turned out her eyesight was awful and she’d been too terrified to mention it – I think our mother had given her the impression that it was a personal failing rather than an actual medical problem. It was an awful slap in the face from reality for us all. Well, I’m still not convinced Mom cared, but that’s neither here nor there.

“All done, Mme. Fonda. Elevator up to the top floor for administration and design.” Raincomprix cleared me and I stepped into the elevator for the fifth floor. I felt a little excited energy and tried to shake it off on the way up; I didn’t want to look at all nervous for Gabriel.

 _Just another job. Just another job_ , I thought at myself. Then I reminded myself of my least favorite Agreste designs and that helped settle me down a bit more.

The doors opened, and I put on my game face.

 

* * *

 

Of course, nobody was there yet. The _Agreste_ work day started at 9:30am sharp, and it wasn’t even nine yet. I walked over to my desk, where someone had unceremoniously dumped a week of mail on top of my unpacked boxes. I recognized the item on top – Vogue, from last May, my name adorning the headline in big letters.

**JEANINE FONDA TO LEAVE MARC JACOBS FOR AGRESTE**

Of course, it had to be a picture of Gabriel and not me. I threw the magazine in the bin and started to unpack. I was still a little sour about that. Not sour enough to change my mind, though. And certainly not as sour as Jacobs was when he only found out when Vogue broke the news. Oh, he’d scrambled when that happened. Sarah and I had margaritas and giggled about the whole affair; good memories.

People started trickling in as I kept unpacking, and I took note of the outfits as they came up to greet me. It was a mixture of designers, models, secretaries, paper pushers. I only saw one stylist – but of course, Gabriel had fired the other two. Right.

The models dressed to their own varied aesthetics. I saw a lot of billowy clothing though, which I questioned internally. I was still pretty sure Gabriel wasn’t about that anymore. The regular office workers dressed mainly _Agreste_. Priced out of getting more variety, it was safe to stick to.

The designers, I paid much more attention to. I had to figure out what I had to work with, and what they were going to be producing for me. Gabriel hired lots of designers, which was part of the allure of the company – lots of independent work, lots of concurrent lines, lots of potential. It shouldn’t have been so successful of a model, but Gabriel had a way of refining things that made the concurrent lines just work.

I sat down and idly sketched leather jackets as an excuse to people watch, and tried to remember how Chat Noir’s outfit was cut. Frustratingly, the details slipped away rather quickly. The glossy black hid the angles well, and I just couldn’t remember exactly how it had turned. I was probably just too distracted.

Eventually, Gabriel strode in, hands behind his back, and the bustling people all straightened themselves out for him. He swiftly made the rounds, commenting on a design here and there, passing a cold remark with a sniff. He came to my desk and gave my outfit a once-over. He raised an eyebrow in interest, and turned to address the floor.

“Ladies, gentlemen; I hope you’ve all met Mme. Fonda, who will be styl–“

CRASH!

The door to the stairway burst open and a girl with jet black pigtails came rushing through, redfaced and panting. I sat up immediately; her jacket was cut _exactly_ the way I had been trying to remember. She froze, an apology obviously on the tip of her tongue going unvoiced when she saw Gabriel addressing the whole floor. Her eyes darted between him and me – Gabriel’s brow turned downwards, and mine up.

“Please, don’t let us keep you, Mlle. Cheng,” he intoned, expressionless. He sounded a little cold to me, although it was tough to tell for sure – Gabriel was king of the resting bitch face.

The poor girl seemed to think it was a bad sign though. She hurried towards her desk and sat down, face burning.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “As I was saying, I hope you’ve all met Mme. Fonda, who will be styling our live shows this year. As such, it would–“

DING!

Alright, Gabriel _definitely_ looked a little peeved right there. The elevator opened to _Agreste’s_ centerpiece, and Sarah’s celebrity crush: Adrien. He was ironically rather casually adorned, and wore a similar expression to Mlle. Cheng – a little red, a little out of breath, and frozen at a glance from his father. His eyes darted over to mine, and his head tilted and his eyes widened in surprise. Gabriel narrowed his eyes and pressed onwards through gritted teeth.

“ _As such_ , it would behoove you to get to know her and be courteous _._ I expect to see your preliminary Winter designs by the end of the week. _That is all,”_ he said icily, and swept away towards his office. I could almost see the coat-tails made of tears trailing behind him as he left the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constructive criticism is welcome.  
> If this were real life I would have a profound end note for you but this is fake life so GUESS WHAT BARBARA, YOU CAN'T HOLD ME ACCOUNTABLE.  
> ...sorry, professor.
> 
> Akumas are actually pretty dangerous in this particular universe. Jeannie is just particularly out of the loop when it come to anything not fashion. She was lucky today, but she really needs to read up on her news before it bites her in the butt...


	3. Troisième Tableau: "It's not a pretty face, I grant you, but underneath its flabby exterior is an enormous lack of character."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Of course she’s new here, _idiote._ She’s Jeannie Fonda, only the BEST American stylist ever. Sériusement, Sabrina, I only mentioned her like a million times,” said a voice from behind a stack of papers.  
>  _Oh dear._ I recognized that voice.

I really didn’t need to be there that early. I actually didn’t even need to be there that week, if it weren’t for the fact that I didn’t know anybody yet – you have to have decent workplace relationships if you want to get people to do what you want. Well, unless you were Gabriel. I’d call people out for shitty quality too, but usually over a mug of hot chocolate or something.

Some people swear that you need to be one way or the other – harsh dictator, or encouraging colleague. It’s a mostly bullshit dichotomy. They both work if you’re good at it, and Gabriel was pretty good at ripping people’s decisions apart. Not that I’m trying to defend him or the psychological trauma he causes, but he’s usually right. Nobody comes up with new, popular stuff like _Agreste_.

I personally thought he’d exercised some restraint with the little Asian girl and his son. Tardiness is unforgivable until you’ve got the goods to back yourself up. And hell, look at me; I got attacked, and I _still_ came early. I don’t even have work to do yet. Kids these days.

I took a little stroll around the office after I’d adjusted my little jacket drawing. I wouldn’t have much to do until people started finishing up and testing out designs; I’d style for any live shows, magazine shoots, or independent projects that came up. It was a bit of a weird, executive-ish position that Gabriel had put me in – I’d manage a lot of the putting together work, and Gabriel would jump in and out of the process and make final approvals.

I stopped by Jean-Luc Courtois’ desk and was met with a very enthusiastic cheek kiss and,

“ _Ahhh bienvenue Mme. ça va??”_

“ _Ça va bien merci_ , just Jeannie’s fine,” I replied. “What are you working on?”

He was hopping around Gabriel’s son with a tape measure. I thought I had a pretty good idea of what he was working on but it was just polite to ask so he could explain it himself – it was a bit of a street piece with very avant-garde blocks of color. Picasso-y, and he said as much. Adrien’s oddly informal office clothing made a bit more sense now.

“An exploration of an idea I had, trying to combine the art of one of our great historical figures with what’s going on with Parisians today!” he said jovially. He was a peppery fellow.

 _Morning person_ , I thought with mild disgust.

Adrien had been staring me down the whole time with a bit of an odd smile. I suppose he must have just zoned out, acting as a human mannequin and all. I gave him a quick _Bonjour_.

He shook himself, and gave me a quiet greeting.

“It’s nice to meet you after having heard so much, Mme. Fonda–”

“Just Jeannie’s fine.”

“–Jeannie,” he continued with a polite smile.

“I hope you weren’t caught up in the Akuma attack this morning. It looked like it was near Hôtel Balzac?” he asked, concern painted across his face. Courtois absently threw a scarf at Adrien and perked up.

“Ah _ouai_ , terrible business. Our own _petit problem!_ ” he said with a little frown.

“It wasn’t so bad,” I replied. “They were a little…enthusiastic, you could say? But I told them I wasn’t really interested in participating today and they left me alone, eventually.”

It really wasn’t such a big deal. I didn’t want to blow things out of proportion, and bird lady _did_ leave me alone after I pepper sprayed her.

Jacques Courtois’ eyebrows were giving me different signals, though. They looked like they were going to detach from his face and fly into the aether.

“The Akuma… let you go?” he said in confusion. Adrien was openly gawking now.

“Well,” I said reluctantly. “I may have been a little physical about exercising my right to say no.”

The two men were looking utterly dumbfounded.

_It’s really not that big of a deal? What am I missing?_

Adrien spoke up softly. “Jeannie, that’s… I mean, the Akumas can be a little dangerous around here if you’re not careful. It’s usually… it’s a better idea to just go along, you know? They did give you a guidebook, right?” he asked hesitantly.

 _Dangerous?_ “Nonsense,” I replied. “I needed to get here early to unpack. I told the bird lady I’d participate some other time.”

I was reading outright concern on their faces now. “What is it?” I asked, trying to keep the snap out of my voice. Adrien still flinched.

“Jeannie, it’s just that… maybe you should ah, –“

CRAAAASHHHHHH

“ _ahhhhhdésoledésolemillepardonsmafauteentièrementj’suistropmaladroitc’est…”_

I blinked. It was that little Asian girl again. I missed literally every word she said.

“ _Chérie_ , please calm down, we are not the firing squad. I’m Jeannie, what’s your name?” I asked gently.

“ _ahouijesais_ – I MEAN, MARINETTE. Marinette Dupain-Cheng, junior designer,” she said rapidly.

French people talked too damn fast. When I started trying to polish my speaking and listening skills, I’d watched old French movies until I could catch everything they said. I’d been okay for speed so far with everyone I spoke to, but this girl sounded like she’d be able to rap circles around Eminem.

“Just here to drop off some jeans for ah, ah, _bonjour Adrien_ …” Marinette trailed off as she noticed Adrien.

 _Wow_ , I thought. I’d never seen someone blush THAT red before. You could make a pretty dress out of that red. Luckily for her, Jean-Luc was already leaping over with a _merci chérie_ between the two to take the pants off her hands, so she could compose herself a little bit.

“ _Salut Marinette_ ,” Adrien called back brightly with a dazzling smile, trying to lean around him. The previous topic was forgotten entirely as Jean-Luc held up the three pairs for me with an eyebrow raised.

“For Adrien?” I asked. I took a quick glance between subject and designer. “Middle one for sure.”

“Reaaaally, hmmm?” Courtois mused – not offensively, mind you, but with professional curiosity.

“I would have gone with this one here,” he said, gesturing. “BUT, let us see!” he went on brightly.

“If you wouldn’t mind, Adrien? And Marinette, pay attention,” he said, putting on a more academic air. “See if you can’t tell me why Mme. Fonda chose that particular pair.”

“Oh, sure Jean-Luc.” He promptly threw his slacks off as Courtois tossed him both pairs of jeans.

Marinette made an unintelligible noise that I assumed was an affirmative, and her eyes widened. She really looked out of her comfort zone here. I was a little fascinated, I had to admit.

 _Have to ask Gabriel about this one later. Actually, scratch that; he looked unhappy with her. I’ll dig up her file later,_ I thought to myself. A junior position was a junior position, but it was still _Agreste_ – she was hired for good reason.

But, that reason was DEFINITELY not her people skills. Successful designers tended to be talented, charming, or downright arrogant, in any combination of the three. I wouldn’t call Marinette charming – adorable, more like, which I suppose you could market just fine. It had to be her work, and I’d bet that jacket was her own design.

I wasn’t sure if Gabriel had set her mentorship up with Jean-Luc alone or with all the designers and hesitated for a moment, before making a decision.

 _Ah, fuck it._ I walked around the desk, and posted up next to Marinette, who immediately stiffened.

“You know Marinette,” I said casually, but quietly. “That jacket is really beautiful. I’d ask where you bought it, but I’m fairly certain nobody I know is cutting their leather like that. Your design?”

Marinette looked up at me in surprise. She stammered a reply.

“I – well, _ouai_ , nobody’s – uh, I hope you like – I MEAN, you said you like it so I suppose thank you? I mean–“

 _Success_. I’d distracted her from the half-naked model, who was clothed once more. I gently nudged her halfway through her nervous reply.

“Eyes on the exhibit, not me, _chérie_. Thoughts?” I said a little louder.

“– and I suppose maybe that’s presumptuous and oh that came out wrong and – oh, _oui madame_ ” she said, eyes snapping up. Her blush had faded a little.

“Just Jeannie, _s’il vous plait._ What do you think?”

“Um well, it uh fits really nicely?” she said weakly. “Uh, straight cut, vibrant colors, ripped hem for the street style…” Her stutter faded away as she focused in on the details.

Adrien gave a little spin, and smiled encouragingly at her. Jean-Luc had his elbows on his desk, eying the design critically.

“Take a look at the upper side, _chérie._ You’re on the right track,” I murmured.

Marinette’s little brow scrunched up cutely, before suddenly she made a little jump.

“ _Oh_ ,” she said quietly. “I didn’t even notice that.”

“Let’s see the other one, Adrien,” I called. I tried to subtly turn back towards Marinette.

“You know, I know you’re trying to make a good impression on everyone since it’s the first day back, and you’re probably trying to save a little bit of money on clothing too, but you might want to keep your better designs at home. So they won’t be copied, you know,” I said very softly, eyes still on the changing model.

Marinette was staring at me again, eyes wide in a much different fashion than they had been at Adrien, who continued to change as I distracted her again.

“In fact,” I continued confidentially, “I’m pretty sure nobody was paying attention to it during your little entrance, so you could probably just put it in a cabinet at your desk before anyone was even _tempted_ to try and take a closer look.”

Marinette was looking a little pale now, out of the corner of my eye. My heart sank for her a little bit. This was clearly the first she’d heard of it – and I’m afraid to say I wasn’t even that surprised. It’s a cutthroat industry and inspiration can be a bitch to find when you need it most.

“Just a little advice from veteran,” I said cheerfully, straightening up. I didn’t bother looking for her reaction.

“Eyes on the prize, Marinette. Tell me what you see,” I said louder, as Adrien finished zipping up his pants. Her gaze looked a little sharper than it did before, eyes glinting in a much more aggressive way.

“I think I know why Mme. – _excusez-moi_ , Jeannie, prefers this one. Calvin Klein did the same thing with the way the seams are cut to curve with the pockets, in 2013. May edition, I think. This one’s a straight V, and it’s much more novel.” Marinettte dictated this quite clearly, no hint of hesitance at all.

 _She’s much more confident when she’s thinking about work. That’s good_ , I thought to myself.

“Good girl,” I said approvingly, and in English. She blushed again. Jean-Luc looked a little peeved at himself – I bet he’d been too focused on Parisian street culture to have remembered anything about American innovations.

“Well!” he exclaimed, “It is definitely good to have you on the team, Mme. Jeannie.” He dramatically tossed the discards into the trash bin.

“ _Pas d’innovation sans les erreurs, non?”_ he said good-naturedly.

“One success is worth all the mistakes it takes to make it, remember that Marinette!”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. He seemed like a good guy, with decent ideas to boot – but it was a mistake that I knew Gabriel would have ripped him apart for, and rightly so. He should have known. I let it go this time around.

Jean-Luc excused himself and ran off to the bathroom, and I did likewise, headed to the elevator for Record-Keeping. As I walked off, followed by Marinette’s eyes, I saw Adrien wander over to her side.

“That was really impressive, Marinette! I definitely wouldn’t have caught that,” he said sincerely.

“Ah eh, well it was nothing really,” she said shyly, wringing her hands.

“You look great in that by the way. NOT that you don’t look great usually or anything or – well I mean–“

I missed the rest of their conversation as the elevator doors closed, and I hit the button for the second floor.

 _Marinette needs to figure out how to transfer her confidence in her work to her workplace relationships_ , I thought to myself. I continued musing on the topic as the floors chimed open, and I walked towards the help desk.

The desk was the centerpiece of the floor, which was filled with nothing but file cabinets, paper-pushers, accountants, and the like; everything you needed to keep an empire like _Agreste_ functioning. The desk itself was stacked high with paperwork, and staffed by a bored looking girl with wide-rimmed glasses, who didn’t notice me walking up.

I cleared my throat, and her hands left the keyboard of her computer.

 _Left hand on QSDF, right hand on the arrow keys. Gee, wonder what she was doing_ , I thought sarcastically. I’d caught Sarah the same way too many times when she said she was “doing homework” to be fooled anymore.

“You’re new here. Can I help you?” she said in a high-pitched, nasally voice, and a pasted-on customer service smile. My head was already starting to ache prematurely in anticipation. She did not sound very helpful to me.

“Of course she’s new here, _idiote_. She’s Jeannie Fonda, only the BEST American stylist ever. _Sériusement_ , Sabrina, I only mentioned her like a million times,” said a voice from behind a stack of papers.

 _Oh dear_. I recognized that voice.

Chloe Bourgeois’ infamous head stuck itself out from behind the stack, vacuous smile and all.

“OH, JEANNIE, it is _so good_ to have you here,” she gushed, and gave me a crushing hug. I was so uncomfortable already. Chloe was another high profile model for _Agreste_ , and tended to appear in their magazines moreso than the live shoots. She had hired me more than once on trips to America – I tried to stay away from celebrity styling usually, but she was tough to say no to. And showed up anyways when you did. I suffered through it; partially because she was literally made of money and wasn’t shy about throwing it around, and partially because she could honestly be pretty fun to be around if you got to keep your exposure levels low.

“You HAVE to come out with me shopping some time,” she said imperiously. “I swear you literally can’t find anything you need in those stupid American stores. I mean, New York’s fine I guess but everywhere else is just pathetic in comparison to _Avenue des Champs-Élysées,_ we have literally everything you could possibly want here,” she prattled on.

“It’s good to see you too, Chloe,” I cut in. “I was just looking for some files on the junior designers,” I said, trying to steer her towards a more productive topic. No faster way to get what you wanted with Chloe on your side, you know?

“Oh Sabrina can help you with that,” she said dismissively. The girl at the desk jumped up at her name and instantly started poking through the cabinets.

“And it’s just one junior designer, I could tell you that. Marinette _Dupain-Cheng_ ,” she said snidely. “She makes okay stuff I guess but she’s literally useless around the male models, ever since we were all in _lycée_ together really,” she said, gesturing to Sabrina.

 _Huh_ , I thought. Sabrina handed me a file stamped **M.** **Dpn-CHENG** , with a simpering smile.

“I don’t know why I didn’t recognize you immediately! Chloe and I are the _biggest_ fans of your Jacobs lines, she got me that lacy black outfit that you put together at Fashion Week for my birthday, you know?” she said happily.

“It was literally nothing,” Chloe said dismissively. “It and that little patterned comb just made your hair look so much less awful, I had to get it.”

I was torn between horror and laughter. Nobody gave a backhanded compliment like Chloe. But Sabrina glowed with the… praise?

 _What a relationship_.

I skimmed the documents inside – pictures of designs Marinette had submitted to Gabriel’s contests, pictures of her portfolio, notes on her interview, her resumé. It all basically confirmed what I’d already guessed from her jacket and our short interactions. In Gabriel’s own handwriting, five words: _Surprisingly original ideas. Nonexistent composure._

I looked up.

“Can I get her transferred over to me?” I asked. “I’ll be observing everyone so she’ll get to see it all anyhow,” I explained.

Chloe wrinkled her nose. Sabrina sniffed at me. But she reached back into a cabinet and handed me the form.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter turned out way longer than I expected it would. I'd mapped it out, but the scene with Jacques Courtois and Marinette ended up taking up a lot of space - I can talk shop all day, but I didn't expect any of it would carry over to this. It had to be written though, for the sake of character development. 
> 
> Basically they’re always speaking French, just to clear that up, unless it’s Jeannie and Sarah (although you KNOW Sarah is working her way through Jeannie’s French movies right now). The inserts are just for a) when Marinette departs the realm of comprehensibility, and b) AESTHETICS.


	4. Quatrième Tableau: “That’s uh, quite a dress you almost have on there.”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She is late, _constamment_ , and cannot articulate one opinion clearly. You ask her to bring you material? She comes back twenty minutes later because she cannot find anything, and drops it all on the ground,” Durand said, tugging sharply at the latex band. His model stumbled a little bit at the gesture.

The rest of the day was mostly uneventful. I filled out my form and Sabrina faxed it over to Gabriel right away. I said hello to the other designers, but they were still in conceptual stages so there was nothing to look at yet. I briefly saw Marinette lugging up fabric from the fourth floor, and was silently pleased to see her jacket-free. I ended up spending the rest of my day responding to emails from various old clients and prospective clients and the like.

No, I wasn’t in New York anymore. So sorry, I probably wouldn’t be back in the foreseeable future. _Oui_ , we can set up a meeting sometime in the next week. _Oui_ , I can help you pick out an outfit for the gala. _Non_ , I have a prior engagement and…

I still wasn’t totally sure about what my role at _Agreste_ would fully entail. Designers tended to either start up independently and try to carve out a little niche for themselves, or join a firm like Gabriel’s for a little more security and widespread renown. Stylists, on the other hand, could really do whatever – some people made a living attached at the hip to celebrities, and did nothing else. Some stuck with companies and thrived on mass quantities of work, like Greg with Project Runway. Some others did a mixture of freelancing and their own work – Rihanna’s stylist Mel was one of the more successful examples of that, with both an editorial position and her gig on the side.

Gabriel was paying me a lot to just basically be on staff and on call, for the moment. Of course it’d be much busier once Winter Exhibition, and then Paris Fashion Week came around, but I had about two months of limbo time. I decided I’d just keep my independent contracting on the light side, and focus on getting friendly with the company, and maybe do some sketching of my own.

As I headed home, I finally checked my phone to find several messages from Sarah.

 

1:45pm

 **Sarah** : JEANNIE WHAT THE FUCKKKKKKKKKKK!!?!1?

2:01pm

 **Sarah:** wait literally what happened jeannie u can’t leave me in the dark like this

 **Sarah:** did u meet Chat noir. or ladybug. or are you just shitting me right now

3:20pm

 **Sarah:** jeannie I stg text me back u god damn vagrant

4pm

 **Jeannie:** Nah, I just saw him hanging out on the roof on the way to work.

 **Sarah:** okay okay okay now let’s back up from there

 **Sarah:** I watched the clip on the ladyblog and like

 **Sarah:** U ACTUALLY PEPPER SPRAYED AN AKUMA

 **Sarah:** ladybug looked so confused when she showed up???

 **Jeannie:** I mean I really didn’t feel like being late to work?

 **Sarah:** Jeannie plz I want to move to paris can you like not

 **Sarah** : actively try to die before I get there

 **Jeannie:** I don’t know why everyone’s being so melodramatic about this? It’s just like weird Paris pride.

 **Jeannie** : Like that video you sent me of all those college kids howling at the moon on Halloween

 **Jeannie:** And you didn’t seem that concerned when that vacuum cleaner guy came through yesterday!

 **Sarah:** that. was. before. i found out u were running around. fucking pepper spraying them?!?!?

 **Sarah:** Jeannie idk HOW u have missed this memo but like

 **Sarah:** it’s 200% not a joke or a meme or anything, I swear

 **Sarah:** like ladybug and chat noir are actual legit superheroes TM and papillon is a literal supervillain

 **Sarah:** like did u not look at ANY of the links I sent u

 **Jeanne:** Yeah but everything’s always fine after it’s all done? I thought it was just like… special effects and stuff?

 **Sarah:** no it’s like. Actual Magic. Like the akumas poof people and the magic is the only thing bringing them back.

 

I felt a bit of a lump in my throat. _She’s not actually serious…_

_…right?_

 

 **Sarah:** i can see ur face right now and swear 2 fucking god I am 0% joking

 **Sarah:** u could actually die. (plz don’t) So plz just let ladybug and chat noir deal with that shit bc they are the b omb and also have magic.

 **Sarah:** I hope u didn’t say anything stupidly insensitive to someone in the meantime.

I uncomfortably thought back to my odd conversation with Adrien and Jacques. I relayed the rest of my day to Sarah, who went back to her normal, meming self. She chattered away alternatively at how stupid high school boys were and what she was going to do once she got to Paris with me.

I spent my evening quietly, thinking about what she’d said. It was still tough to wrap my mind around.

 

* * *

 

The next day, I wore a floral Ralph Laurens blazer to work. American sunglasses, American jeans, American heels (Kate Spade, to be specific), with an American Marc Jacobs bag. I hadn’t worn any _Agreste_ to work yet. I hadn’t actually worn anything from the whole continent, actually. When Gabriel arrived, his eyes narrowed the tiniest fraction at the outfit. I didn’t bother standing up for him, and gave him a lazy smile back with my _Bonjour **.**_ He knew what I was doing. And he knew I knew he knew what I was doing, and so he didn’t dignify it with a response. Gabriel simply nodded, slipped a piece of paper on my desk, and moved along.

Of course, he was wrong. Gabriel thought I was trying to make some sort of a statement about _Agreste’s_ move towards Eastern styles and color palettes, which he was trying to distance himself from now, and that I was being a spunky smart-aleck with him about it.

I was actually just trying to wear some nice clothes before it was too late. The spunk was just a convenient excuse.

You see, _haute couture_ is a rather wasteful industry. It’s awful form to wear something out of season – it shows that you’re lazy more than anything else. You really like your little floral outfit, you say? Well, you can put together one just as effective from this year’s lines.

Free samples, you ask? Tough luck, you have to buy it all yourself. It’s part of why it’s so difficult to get your foot into the industry – you can’t dress seriously and impressively without the budget to do it, you can’t get the budget to do it if you don’t dress seriously and impressively. Shitty situation, but that’s how it goes. You work your way up slowly unless your daddy’s rich. Or if you’re very talented and even luckier.

I was lucky. A stylist broke both feet in a freak accident during Fashion Week years ago and I stepped in to sub, five minutes to midnight on the Doomsday Clock. I know my hair and makeup and did a better job than she ever did on the models and they told all their friends and I suddenly got a lot of high-profile independent work. The rest is history.

All this is leading to say is that I and anyone else that remotely knows their shit have to buy a lot of clothing on a continuous basis. And some stuff is just impossible to style together, and by the time you find something it works with – poof! It’s out of season, and you haven’t even worn it yet.

It’s a terrible waste. I got around it by giving Sarah the best hand-me-downs a girl could ask for – although recently, she’s been tagging along with me more and more often and so we share the same wardrobe more now. If she’s coming to assist me at an event, she’s gotta be in season too, you know?

Anyways, now that she cares more about tagging along and stuff, we just give everything away to whoever it’ll fit. I was thinking about offering Marinette some clothes sometime down the line – she might be able to wear the less form-fitting stuff I had. That girl was tiny.

I glanced at the sheet Gabriel had left me; my transfer request form, stamped **APPROVED.**

_Wonderful._

I stood up and strolled over to Marinette’s little cubicle in the corner of the room, where she was staring into her purse and intently whispering at it. She didn’t notice me leaning over the little walls.

“You know Marinette,” I said conversationally, and she yelped, quickly closing her purse,

“It’s not a sin to be talking on the phone at work. If you’re really that embarrassed though, you could just invest in a Bluetooth headset? They’ll still know you’re on the phone but it’ll look a lot more professional,” I said. Plus it freed up the hands to work.

“I wasn’t –“ she started to protest, before freezing.

“Huh,” she said with a thoughtful look back down at her purse. “That’s actually… not a bad idea…”

“ _Suis-moi_ , Marinette. You’ll be observing with me now,” I said, passing her the transfer form. She looked a little stunned at it.

“Ah, _merci, merci beacoup Madame,_ ” she said sincerely and quickly jumped up.

I rolled my eyes. “And _please_ don’t call me _Madame_. It makes me feel old. Just Jeannie. I’m not even thirty yet, for chrissakes,” I griped goodnaturedly.

Marinette looked mortified still. “Oh! _Oui mad_ – er, Jeannie.”

We walked up to Jamie Durand’s desk, where he was working on something… shockingly racy?

“ _Bonjour Mme. Fonda,_ ” he said briefly. He glanced over at Marinette, and his eyebrow curled down subtly. “ _Cheng_ ,” he said disdainfully.

I didn’t bother correcting him with my name.

“What are you working on, Monsieur Durand?” I asked. He wiped his bald forehead off and picked up a skimpy black line of latex.

“This, _Madame_ , will be _Agreste’s_ next big line,” he declared matter-of-factly.

_I beg your pardon?_

“We are stunningly short on _le feu_ , here at _Agreste_ ,” he continued. “It is one of our great leader’s failings, _je crois_ – he is always looking for the elegant and refined, but we need the _raw_ , _le brut, le violence_ ” he lectured zealously, grabbing his model’s arm and shaking it to illustrate his point.

She looked quite uncomfortable for a brief moment before the expression was carefully erased from her face, as she looked at Durand and myself. I saw that he had been trying to show how the latex would twine its way around her arms. It stretched around to her bra, which was made of yin-yang circles linked together like chain-mail. Her panties followed similar patterning.

I gave Marinette a measuredly blank look. “Any preliminary thoughts, _chérie_?”

Marinette did not look like she wanted to comment at all.

“Euh, uh, well..” she stalled.

“ _Allez-y_! I do not have all day, girl!” Durand snapped.

“Ack! Well it, uh, looks a little tight on her?” she said timidly.

His eyes narrowed at her and I quickly stepped in. “I would agree with that. Not necessarily a bad thing… but who’s the target audience?” I asked. I was trying hard to be civil.

 _He is a colleague_ , I reminded myself.

“Oh, that is not a concern. Those who feel _le passion et l’amour_ will line up for this. It has _vision_ , you see – _that_ , is what we look for at _Agreste_ ,” he said proudly.

“It is like _Plato_ and his _sphères célestes_ , from _le Grand Anaximander_ – there is such beauty in _le perfection et équilibre_ _des sphères,_ idealism that we should all aspire towards, _Marinette Dupain-Cheng_ ,” he finished, glaring at the girl, who looked like she wanted to sink into the floor in shame.

I didn’t have a clue what he was talking about, but man-oh-man this was personal.

“Marinette _chérie_ , I forgot my notebook at my desk, would you be a dear and fetch it for me?” I asked sweetly. “Top drawer,” I said, and as she fled, I turned back towards Durand, eyebrow raised.

He looked irritated, and went back to cutting his latex.

“Forgive me, _Madame_ , for losing my composure. That girl is _incapable et incompetent!_ She has no place here!” he exclaimed, aggressively slicing the material apart.

“We all lose our tempers,” I said diplomatically. I was definitely close to losing mine.

“If I might ask, is there any particular reason why you are so against Mlle. Dupain-Cheng?”

Durand placed the latex section back on his model and swiftly clipped it in place.

“She is late, _constamment_ , and cannot articulate one opinion clearly. You ask her to bring you material? She comes back twenty minutes later because she cannot find anything, and drops it all on the ground,” he said, tugging sharply at the latex band. His model stumbled a little bit at the gesture.

“That is not even mentioning,” he continued, brandishing a metal clip, “how _irrespecteux_ she is. It was _I_ who created Gabriel’s most famous _Mystères du Monde_ last year,” he said, gesturing wildly at himself.

“And she asks for _credit_ because she says it is _her_ design when I take inspiration from the great astronomers themselves. _Insolence_!” he declared with a huff.

“Hmm,” I replied noncommittally. I went up to Durand’s model while he turned back towards his table to cut more latex and casually helped the poor girl loosen the binding.

Marinette returned with my book, looking like a whipped puppy. She tried to hand me the book, but I linked my arm with hers instead.

“Come on Marinette, _allons-y_ ,” I said, briskly pulling her along. “To some place a little happier,” I continued softly. She looked up like she was expecting an interrogation, but I didn’t give her one. As far as I was concerned, Durand’s whole spiel about celestial spheres was total horseshit. But I’d look into it later.

 

* * *

 

“Marinette _chérie_ , you really do need to be able to speak around your colleagues,” I tried to say sternly. “You really want to foster these connections right now so you have people you can rely on in the future.”

It was the end of the day, and we were sitting in my office. We’d rounded things off after lunch with Cecile Giraud, a lovely, but taciturn Nigerian woman. She was working on a bold, bright yellow and black leather ensemble with Adrien (beautifully form-fitting, I’d noted). She’d been very patient with Marinette, who took notes and kept her mouth shut after a series of death-defying tongue-twisters.

Marinette reminded me too much of Sarah sometimes and I had to remind myself to keep the stern face on, or I would let her do anything she wanted; and that would be terribly irresponsible of me as a mentor. Most of the people in the business tended to become immune to the sight of beautiful, famous, and exceptionally accomplished people after a while, but the poor girl certainly wasn’t there yet.

“It’s not everyone!” she protested, “Just, uh… you know, some of them are, uh… _histoire?_ I mean… _j’m’dire au lyceé et uhhc’estdifficiledeuhc’est-à-direque…._ ”

Marinette quickly descended into incomprehensibility as her cheeks flushed bright red. I wasn’t going to blame it on my French this time. I was pretty sure a native couldn’t have caught a thing she said either.

“And you can start by you know, trying to speak up a little bit more in general?” I suggested.

“I had some wonderful professors who taught public presentation when I was in school, and a little bit of volume is one of the simpler things that really helps to instill confidence when you’re not too sure of yourself,” I said to her.

Marinette nodded a little frantically and grabbed her sketchbook, scribbling it down. I approved; memory is fickle and wholly unreliable in the face of a lifetime habit.

“There’s a lot of other little things we can talk about to help you with that, if you like,” I mused, trying to think back to sophomore year of university.

“You could try writing out some simple greetings and questions and memorize them. Focus on talking slowly. Oh, and I had an old teacher who swore by doing power poses and victory poses in the bathroom before anything stressful, I can lend you the book he gave – _chérie,_ you are looking like a bobblehead right now. Maybe you should write that down too,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.

Marinette abruptly stopped her aggressive head-nodding, looking mortified. She ducked her head and kept writing.

“Is this all making sense to you?” I asked in concern. “Of course I don’t know if you’ve already tried these things already and I am just wasting your time or anything?”

“Oh non!” she quickly replied. “Well, I have a friend who sort of helps me with victory poses on occasion” she said with a peculiar smile. “But you’re right… I can be kind of hopeless sometimes… but I want to get better!” she said earnestly.

I gave her an encouraging smile. I continued on, trying to keep my train of thought going.

“Some people like to visualize what they say three times before they begin. And eye contact is good, unless you’re afraid you’ll just go deer-in-the-headlights – pardon me, American turn of phrase, it just means to freeze up – oh and if you’re feeling too intimidated by your colleagues, I’ve had some friends say picturing them naked helps them not take them too, too seriou– oh dear, Marinette?”

Marinette’s sketchbook and pencil had slipped out of her hands to clatter noisily on the ground. She had bypassed blushing this time around to turn positively pale, jaw comically frozen half open. I definitely hadn’t thought that last piece of advice through. I thought I heard some soft, high giggling coming from somewhere distant.

_I’ve really forgotten what it’s like to be new in the business._

I’d assumed that Marinette was just intimidated by the _Agreste_ employees’ staggering resumé’s and international fame, but it was evidently something much more… physical.

 _Sarah would have figured this out much more quickly_ , I thought to myself drily.

Marinette was interrupted out of her catatonia, and I out of my musings, when a concerned knock came at the door. A blonde head tentatively peeked its way inside, eyes darting around.

“Everything okay in here, Jeannie?” asked Adrien Agreste, still haphazardly clothed in form-fitting yellow and black. Marinette was sitting stiff-backed, trying to slowly edge her way to the corner of the room. Nonetheless, Adrien spotted her and instantly perked up.

“Oh, hey Marinette!” he said brightly. “I hope I wasn’t interrupting anything,” he began, as I stood up. Marinette shot me desperate distress signals as her eyes darted back and forth between us.

“We were just about to head out and get some hot chocolate at the café across the street, finish up our discussion,” I casually deflected, flashing him a polite smile.

_She certainly needs some after that conversation._

“Ah… would you care for company or are you…” he hesitantly queried.

“Not today, Monsieur Agreste. We have a few private things to discuss,” I replied. He looked a little put out; evidently he just wasn’t getting the memo.

I looked him straight in the eye.

“Girl things, Adrien. Another time.” His mouth opened in a silent _oh_ , and he slowly backed away.

I cheerfully ignored him and set a brisk pace out of the room.

“ _Allons-y_ , Marinette,” I called genially. I heard her scrambling to grab her things and follow me.

I didn’t look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marinette confesses her long (non)history with Adrien over a mug of hot chocolate with Jeannie. Sarah agrees with Jeannie later: _yah stupidhead i could have told you that like day one, for sho. soooo obvious._
> 
> The next day, Marinette confidently walks up, maintains perfect eye contact, and slowly screams _HELLO HOW ARE YOU_ at Adrien before promptly running away, to Jeannie’s great dismay. If you listened carefully, softly stifled giggles could be heard coming from the little handbag she dropped. But of course, nobody does, so it went unnoticed, as always. Adrien hastens after her to return her bag and they chat for real this time. (I’m pretty sure Tikki is never, ever bored with Marinette around. It’s like reality TV for her. Speaking of which I shamefully watched a little Project Runway for research on this fic. Stay away from the reality TV, kiddos, it’ll ROT YOUR SOUL!1!)
> 
> One of the cool things I’ve discovered, this being the first bit of real creative writing I’ve ever done, is that the ideas come very nonlinearly as you write and as you go about your day. I’ve written a couple scenes out of order, and I have detailed little scene prompts for others to come. It’s wonderful motivation to try and catch up so I can actually post the exciting stuff!


	5. Cinquième Tableau: “Be happy! You only find the right woman once.” “…that many times?”

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And Ladybug’s messed up before, you know – never for too long, but she has. But it’s less about the permanency, and more about the…trauma, you know?” she continued. Adrien was watching her very intently, but Marinette was lost in her own thoughts.

Wednesday went uneventfully. Oh, I’m just teasing. First thing in the morning, Marinette screamed in Adrien’s face, ran away, had her bag returned by a very confused Adrien, had a coherent conversation with him for once, and reported back to me quite shame-facedly.

I’d told her, “Marinette, I don’t even know what to say.”

She blushed. “Yeahhhhh…. I may have overdone it a teensy bit?”

“…Well. I suppose it worked out in the end. In the future, though: all good things come with moderation, _chérie_.”

 

We did a little bit more observation and I left Marinette with Cecile to do some stitchwork practice for the rest of the day. Can’t be a decent designer if you don’t have your fundamentals down, you know – as an old mentor once said to me,

_“Jeannie dahlin’, if ya wanna be a poet with ya stylin’, you got to be a warrior with a brush first. Now stop ya moanin’ and contour it again, we ain't movin' on til' ya can't get it wrong, honey!”_

 

In the afternoon, I got a couple calls from New York. One from a Ms. Simmons, one of Marc Jacob’s secretaries, asking if I’d consider coming back in January for Fashion Week to help out. I gave her the politest _fuck off_ I could think of off the top of my head to extend to Mr. Jacobs.

 _Hell fucking no_. I did everything for him the last two Fashion Weeks. I made his whole show run. I did the styling _and_ I helped match the outfits. I took calls backstage as the models were walking. He could figure out his shitshow of a company by himself this year.

Another call was from my friend Lizzie, a model girlfriend who wanted to know if I’d be at Fashion Week this season – not to work or anything, just to hang out. I told her I didn’t know, but that I’d let her know if I was.

The last call was from a representative calling for Project Runway. Would I style and consult for the final episodes in New York? I’d almost snorted. They never called while I was still living in New York, but the second I make the move to Paris they want me to come?

That’s how the business is, though. Perception can be so important, especially with the more commercial side of things – Gabriel “stole” me from America, so suddenly I’m more important than I was five seconds ago, and then it makes sense to ask me.

I told them yes. Mostly to spite Marc. But also because Sarah was a _huge_ fan. The guy on the line seemed shocked that I’d said yes – no maybes, no _can I call you back later_ ’s, just a flat yes. He asked me if I could stay on the line while he contacted some higher ups, and I was in contract negotiations fifteen minutes later.

They emailed me a copy to look at and it was mostly fine except for a few random odd clauses and a very lengthy confidentiality section. My mother’s a lawyer so I can read a contract, no problem, which frequently surprises people.

I made them adjust a couple of the funkier clauses that affected taxes – I lived in France now, but I could still legally have it processed in America for cheaper – and then eliminated another clause that donated some of my salary to random shit I didn’t care about. I already knew where my money was going, for tax reasons, you know. They were surprised at the requests, but didn’t take any issue with them.

Then I told them I didn’t feel like reading the confidentiality stuff, and that I wouldn’t tell anyone; except that they had to write Sarah in as an exception. THAT was a problem.

“My sister and I are a bit of a unit. She’s going to know whether you write it in or not, but I’d prefer to do this by the books, so I’m afraid I can’t really negotiate on this point.”

They were really, really, REALLY not okay with that.

“You know, you can even spin it for publicity. Leak the negotiation details, tell them I just wouldn’t budge until you let it slide. It might even bump your ratings a little, I bet.”

I thought I was being quite reasonable. I wasn’t pushy about salary, expense accounts, housing, or anything. I just wanted to be able to talk to my sister without a stupid confidentiality clause in the way, when most of the show was literally going to be live anyhow.

The problem, they replied, was that there was going to be a surprise final designing challenge. And also, the little arbitrary fact that no one in the show’s _history_ had ever requested a confidentiality exemption.

“Well, that’s unfortunate,” I told them. “I suppose you’ll have to find someone else. I don’t think there’s much more to discuss, so I’ll get back to work. Let me know if you change your mind, and thank you for calling!”

Maybe I shouldn’t have been so insistent on that. Sarah would probably be pissed that I’d turned the opportunity down because of something like that. But I’d laid that down as non-negotiable in the initial talks, and I wasn’t going to back down from it like a coward. It was my only big request too. _Sheesh_.

I’d just decided that I was definitely _not_ going to tell Sarah about this whole situation when they called again.

They’d talked, and come up with a compromise, they told me: Would you be amenable to having Sarah come on the show as well, as an assistant? We know she tags along frequently and is quite competent, they said.

I grinned to myself, triumphant. I was the best god damn big sister on the planet.

_She will never, ever top this for a birthday present._

I took a while to finalize the deal with them, and sat back and thought for a second. My smile turned a little more devilish. I picked up the phone again to make one last call.

“Hey Lizzie, it’s Jeannie again. About Fashion Week this winter? …yep, I will, we can totally hang! Could you do me a really big favor? …Oh you’ll love it, I promise. Just mention in your interview tomorrow…”

 

* * *

 

3:30pm

 **Jeannie:** I got a call from Ashley Simmons an hour or two ago. Marc asked me if I could come back for Fashion Week in the winter. Lol.

 **Sarah** : lmfao I hope u told him to go fuck his mom

 **Sarah:** or in his case his dad, I guess

 **Jeannie:** I wanted to. That was the gist of the message, anyhow

 **Jeannie:** I had a thought, though. You know what would be even funnier?

 **Jeannie:** If I went back to Fashion Week this year, but for Project Runway instead. He would be sooo angry.

 **Sarah:** lmaooooooo

 **Sarah:** omg that would be so great, I can totally see it

 **Sarah:** you should totally call them. Be like

 **Sarah:** ‘haute couture runs on drama’ or some other flashy shit, they'd be so down, they would get ratings out the wazoo

 **Jeannie:** I would just like casually leak Marc’s call and release a statement afterwards saying I had ‘no plans to return to New York except for important business in the near future’

 **Sarah:** YAS omg

 **Jeannie:** and then the next day, they would announce that I was the stylist/guest consultant for the last surprise challenge and the presentation of the 13-piece collections in the final two episodes, with my little sister Sarah as my assistant.

 **Sarah:** MMMMMMm yeahhh

 **Sarah:** wait

 **Sarah:** that is really weirdly specific for

 **Sarah:** ….jeannie?

 **Sarah:** ……………………………………???

 **Sarah:** jeannie u fucking did NOT

 **Sarah:** JEAAAAAAAAANNNIIIIEEE U. DID. NOTTTTT.

 **Jeannie:** …so Lizzie Halvorsen and I were on the phone earlier and she mentioned she had an interview tomorrow.

 **Sarah:** JEANNIE !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

 **Jeannie:** I may have let slip something about Marc’s call.

 **Sarah:** U. ARE THE MADDEST. BESTEST.

 **Jeannie:** Make sure you’re free first two weeks of January ;)

 **Sarah:** ASFJEPOUIRDKFMSDF I’M CRYING

 

* * *

 

I was on my way back to my hotel, enjoying the breeze and the pleasant Autumn weather when I saw a tidal wave rise up and CRAASSHHH all the way down _Champs-Élysées_. I saw some people struggling to stay afloat, crashing into signposts along with it.

 _Oh, god damn it_.

I hadn’t looked at those Akuma guides yet. I didn’t think another would come this soon, but I suppose I shouldn’t have been surprised.

Resolving to follow Sarah’s advice, I retreated away from the crashing wave with the other citizens of Paris. Alas, it caught up to us anyhow.

 _“JE SUIS BELLE-EAU_ AND EVERYONE DESERVES CLEAN WATER!” screamed a surfer atop the wave, bedecked in off-shades of purple. It was the worst possible time and worst possible excuse but I was too transfixed by the subtly mismatching of the bottom and top halves of his swimsuit to continue fleeing.

“ _JE, BELLE-EAU POUR TOI, JE BELLE-EAU TOI, ET BELLE-EAU TOI”_ he screamed, reduced to caveman grammar as he flung water around. I was soaked wet.

An involuntary giggle burst from my lips.

 _Belle-Eau? Blow_? I mouthed in disbelief. What kind of a name was that?

Unfortunately, Akumas seemed to have uncanny eyesight for people who were too dumb too run away. Namely, me. He surfed down and landed, stalking over to glare in my eyes.

“WHAT’S SO FUNNY, YOU??” He yelled.

I tried to stifle it but my treacherous body continued to shake with nervous laughter. I supposed much later on that it was my own particular defense mechanism in response to terror.

“I’m so sorry this really isn’t funny at all,” I tried to say through giggles, my heart beating out of my chest.

“It’s just that I’m American and _Belle-Eau_ sounds like blow, and you kept saying you were going to blow me and that’s very crude English slang for, you know,” I rambled, sort of panicking as I backed away.

His eyes narrowed and he yelled “YOU’RE MAKING _FUN_ OF ME FOR CARING ABOUT THE QUALITY OF OUR WATER?”

I started _very much_ panicking, my mind split between Sarah’s warnings of imminent magic ‘poofing’ at the hands of Akumas and _oh god that atrocious purple does not match at all_ as _Belle-Eaux_ summoned another wave to hurl at me, and then _I was planning on meeting Marinette for dinner and that is definitely not happening_ before I closed my eyes and – OOOOF!

I opened my eyes to darkness.

 

...Well, a black leather chest, to be more accurate, attached to a very grumpy looking vigilante in a catsuit. He addressed me in English.

“Really, Jea– Madame Fonda, I saw that you are new in town but could you please leave the Akumas to the purr-ofessionals?” he asked. He looked a little bit irked.

I didn’t get a chance to respond, as we soared through the air to land on the top of a chapel. I looked down, eyes a little wide. We were a good hundred feet away from the Akuma, and at least three or four stories high.

“That was some impressive air-time,” I said without thinking, trying to shake out my soaked blazer, and I immediately followed up with a,

“Sorry, thank you for pulling me out of there, _Monsieur Noir_.”

He leaned on his staff with a smirk, casually stretching out his toned arms, about to reply before the sound of retracting metallic string cut him off with a flash of red.

“Chat Noir,” Ladybug began confidently. “What’s the situ – ACK! Madame Fond – I MEAN, JEANN – I MEAN, CIVILIAN, what are you doing here?? It’s not safe!” she said urgently. She lost and regained her composure, quick as a seesaw.

My own eyes narrowed at the two of them. “Have we all met or something? You… both know me?”

Two masked faces instantly went a little red, and began talking at the same time.

“Pshaaaaawwww no I just saw you the other day –“

“Ah eh er well I sort of follow –“

“–and I saw your name on the news later, that’s all!”

“–your Instagram?” Ladybug said hesitantly. Chat Noir instantly stopped talking, and his face snapped to stare at her.

Ladybug shifted uncomfortably in embarrassment at our two incredulous faces, mine and Chat Noir’s both.

“I mean,” she said extremely rapidly, “I sort of saw the Ladybug cosplay you made for your sister and it was _so good_ and I’mactuallyabigfanand–“ she blinked twice, and suddenly became intense once more –

“And it’s _really_ _not safe here_ , let me get you out of here so we can deal with this Akuma!” she declared, resolve surging in her eyes.

Ladybug grabbed hold of me with an iron grip and flung her yo-yo, which streaked towards an impossibly distant cell tower – and, inconceivably, the string almost immediately went taut and I soared away for the second time that day into the aether.

 

* * *

 

 

Ladybug left me on the roof of a six-story building, which conveniently had all its outside-leading doors locked. I didn’t blame her for stranding me there, since she did have to deal with a crazy purple surfer, but it was quite the adventure getting down. I texted Sarah first to let her know I was okay (‘ _I promise this time was actually not my fault, I was trying to get away’_ ), and carefully made my way down a series of fire escapes ( _'also btw ladybug definitely knows who i am'_ ). This time around, I saw for the first time the phenomenon Sarah had told me about – the Miraculous Ladybugs, red streams of sparkling bugs flickering around and cleansing the city.

A handful of shiny ladybugs twirled around me as I reached the ground, and my clothes were suddenly all dry.

 _Holy shit_ , I thought to myself eloquently. My stomach then growled, equally as articulate.

I checked the time – 7:30pm. I’d been looking forward to chatting with Marinette at dinner some more, but I’d definitely missed her. And there were some important things we had yet to discuss; namely, Durand and plagiarism. But I was just trying to distract myself.

I started to walk back towards the _Arc de Triomphe_ , which looked frighteningly small from here, and checked my phone’s GPS with a bit of a sinking feeling in my stomach.

I was ten miles out. Ladybug had traversed ten miles with one yo-yo swing. My knees were weak. My stomach was in knots. I sat down in disbelief.

Ladybug had gone ten miles. In one swing.

It literally made no sense whatsoever. My brain tried in vain to rationalize it somehow, but totally failed.

I was thinking of getting up to call an Uber when a familiar voice called out to me. I looked up, and Adrien’s limousine was rolling down to meet me, its occupant extending his arm to wave me over.

 

* * *

 

The ride over to the restaurant was hazy. Adrien asked me some questions that I gave half-hearted answers to. I got three relieved texts from Sarah, and fifteen frantic ones from Marinette – five apologizing for being late, five asking if I was okay, five more that I couldn’t really make any sense out of about me not being where I was supposed to be. Or something.

We arrived and Adrien escorted me inside. It was some Italian place. I didn’t even catch the name, I was so distracted.

“…’s going to be joining us in a little bit. Jeannie? …Jeannie?”

Adrien was looking at me in concern.

“Sorry… I’m so sorry, what did you say?” I asked hesitantly.

“I said Marinette’s going to be joining us in a little bit. She was really worried about you, you know,” he repeated.

“Oh, right, of course,” I said, trying to muster up a smile. I don’t think I really convinced him at all.

Right on cue, Marinette burst through the door, and ran towards us. She gave me a big long hug and fired off some rapid French that sounded something like her being glad I was okay, and I responded accordingly.

“I’m okay. _Oui_ , I’m fine, thank you. Let’s – let’s just eat, shall we?” I said quietly.

Adrien and Marinette sat side-by-side and whispered quietly together in concern as I ruminated. Some small part of me noted that they looked quite complementary – her in black with a jade necklace, silver bracer, strikingly black earrings; he in a stunning red blazer with a silver ring and a black shirt.

 _Ring?_ I thought absent-mindedly. I’d never noticed it before, and stared a little bit.

“Um… Jeannie?” I heard. I looked up, and was met with azure and emerald stares.

I cleared my throat a little.

“They’re uh… they’re actually superheroes, huh?”

An exchange of glances. Blank stares.

“I never actually thought they were, you know. I thought it was some odd, Parisian expression of nationalism or something. Put a pretty couple up there to put down evil. Save the day,” I finished, a little quietly, a little sardonically.

I ordered some tequila. _Oui monsieur,_ straight, please.

They were still just watching me. I snorted.

“I didn’t even think the Akumas were dangerous until my sister told me, _after_ I’d pepper sprayed one.”

Adrien finally spoke.

“They’ve been a constant menace for us for almost seven years now. Some people who are lucky never realize that either, you know. They forget how dangerous it is. Some of the rest of us have a tough time forgetting,” he added softly.

“It’s always cured in the end though, isn’t it?” I asked. “I mean, has anything truly irreversible ever happened?”

Another set of glances.

Marinette spoke this time.

“It’s just… you can never take it for granted you know? What if Ladybug messes up once?” she asked.

“And she’s messed up before, you know – never for too long, but she has. But it’s less about the permanency, and more about the…trauma, you know?” she continued. Adrien was watching her very intently, but Marinette was lost in her own thoughts.

“On one side, people vanish for good. Even Chat Noir was sent back in time once, and that could – could have been for forever,” she said with a gulp.

“On the other hand, the Akumatized people wake up afterwards and… you wake up somewhere and you don’t know if you’ve done something horrible. And people are looking at you differently, even though they all _know_ it wasn’t really you. And everyone says they understand and they give you a hug and they say they’re on your side, but you can still feel the stares when your back is turned. _Papillon_ strips you of your autonomy and it’s a horrible, horrible thing…”

She perked up a little bit. “But we have help centers, you know! Like specifically for people who have been Akumatized, people who’ve been victims of Akumas. I mean, I’ve volunteered at one before, and it can be heartbreaking to hear the kinds of things people feel. It’s just… it’s not a novelty for us, Jeannie. I know why it can seem like that, but it’s a horrible, horrible thing that we’re doing our – that _Ladybug_ and Chat Noir are doing their best to help us end,” she finished.

Adrien’s gaze was still fixated onto Marinette, unbearably tender in its expression.

“Yeah,” he said in a bit of a daze. “Yeah, that was… you’re… really beautiful – I MEAN. You’re right, that was really… beautifully put,” he weakly corrected himself.

Marinette had jerked around to stare back at Adrien, and the two froze for a long moment; an infinitely long moment of dazed rapture, immune to the bustling waiters and the noise of car horns speckling the backdrop of Paris, City of Love. For a moment, the starstruck, asphyxiated Earth forgot to breathe, and the blind Earthbound gazing stars forgot to shine. Two small heads stared silently upwards from a pink purse sitting forgotten in a lap, sharing a moment together after centuries apart. And everlasting oceans of black bloomed in two sets of eyes, dilated and flooded by endless tributaries spilling out of blue and green.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s not weird unless you make it weird, and, watching these two kids stare at each other, Jeannie knows to keep her mouth shut. It’s a quiet meal, and all five of the heads at the table (kwami _always_ included) are preoccupied with their own thoughts.
> 
> Didn’t write anything at all yesterday because I was doing the literal anathema to, and diametric opposite of Miraculous Ladybug: Dark Souls. Yep. If you want to feel heartbreak in a totally different way, check it out. Otherwise, stick around; these poor superheroes still have a lot to go through and it’s going to be rough.
> 
> In this chapter, I initially used a quote from one of my professors that I’d thought was really inspiring and fitting. I googled it and it turns out it pops up on like the second result – it’s one of her more famous lines, and evidently she uses it a lot. And then you guys would have been able to smoke my civilian identity out in like three seconds from there and that’s no fun, so I used a different one. Bit of a bummer, I liked it a lot.
> 
> Sometimes I write a scene and I reread back to the beginning and I’m like “huh. That idle piece of worldbuilding filler randomly turned out to be amazing foreshadowing.” Except it’s totally unintentional. A lot of the cooler, more brilliant connections in this story are like that. My mom says it’s always like that for her too, and her response is always “damn! I really wrote that?” I think it runs in the family. Not that I’m pretending this is quality work or anything. *cough cough what’s beta reading? cough*
> 
> What’s really difficult for me to write is stuff like that last little stanza. I’m no poet – I’m a storyteller at heart, and that comes with the benefits and enormous hindrances incumbent in such a condition of being. But I try anyhow, because I admire great imagery in writing and I feel that it’s really important to try and emulate the things you admire. Constructive criticism is welcome, and thank you for reading, as always.


	6. Sixième Tableau: Pressure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _“Bien joué, Madame.”_

Like the ever-beating hearts encased within each of our chests, life went on. Little arrhythmic stutters came in the form of violet villains, dreaded deadlines, and tentative turquoise greetings.

In the weeks since my timely rescue by Paris’s scarlet and black duet, we were all besieged by work. Gabriel was rarely present; the designers were busy building their lines; I myself was popping in and out for independent contracts and oversight, and seeing towards Marinette’s continued education.

It was clear that the company had been negligent in its acquisition of young talent such as hers – in fact, I found from casual conversation with my colleagues that _Agreste_ had not taken a junior designer since… before anyone could remember. None were accustomed to having a fresh-out-of-school face, and so none really knew how to help her achieve her own success.

Given the situation and lack of precedent, it was understandable. Frustratingly so, but nonetheless understandable. I resolved to ensure she had a postgraduate curriculum that addressed everything and anything that she might not be familiar with in the business. I knew she had some phenomenal skills, but there was no sense in finding out she couldn’t sew with silk or something in a pressure situation when we could make sure she was prepared in advance.

I had her work mostly with Cecile Giraud in that regard, and had her make scarves, blouses, jackets, and the like out of every material I could think of under the Nigerian woman’s keen supervision. She would show me the finished product and we would critique her work. At this stage, I didn’t really even bother focusing on if the items looked good or not – I just wanted to make sure her work was clean and on a professional level. Marinette quickly discovered that while she had wonderful ideas, the basic work wasn’t always there.

Once, I took issue with a piece she liked and she complained, saying about as much. I told her plainly,

“Marinette it could be the cutest blouse in the world and I wouldn’t buy it from you. Not with those stitches. Or that button work. Your ideas aren’t worth a thing if they fall apart after a year of use.”

I pretended to muse over it for a second.

“Maybe I’d grab it out of the discount bin.”

Face burning, Marinette didn’t complain again.

Honestly, I was overly tough on her, but I wasn’t going to let her get away with just-good-enough when she had so much talent and drive. We threw out most of what she made for the first week or two before she started really polishing her work. Around that time, I noticed that she started keeping some of her work. And one day Adrien showed up wearing a familiar red sweater and I hid a smile.

Marinette, while still a little shy, had finally lost her fear of approaching him since that eventful night nearly a month ago. I was very grateful for that – she seemed very alone at _Agreste_. It was an awful mixture of the older and busier, and the arrogant and aloof. I’d hoped that maybe Chloe might be a good friend for her to have, but she’d wrinkled her nose at that when I suggested it. I wasn’t giving up on it yet, though. Marinette needed friends here, and not just me.

 

* * *

 

About a month after the attack of the purple surfer, I walked out of the elevator in the morning to head straight towards Adrien’s desk.

“ _Monsieur_ Adrien, would you mind terribly if I borrow Guillaume briefly today?” I asked without preamble.

He looked confused. “Um… sure? What… what do you need the Gorilla for?” he asked, puzzled.

Adrien’s bodyguard and chauffeur Guillaume had worked in presidential security prior to joining the _Agreste_ family and had been assigned the codename Gorilla. He was fond of the moniker and insisted on it while he was working.

 “I’ll just need an escort for lunch, and then again back home later this afternoon,” I told him, cheerfully vague, and walked off to my office. As I sat down, I saw Marinette cautiously migrate over to his desk through my window.

“Do… do you know what that was about, Marinette?”

“…I, uh. No?”

“Huh.”

It was going to be a great day. I sent off a few texts, and bought a nice set of makeup brushes online. I refreshed my browser. They were really nice, actually. I went ahead and ordered another set for Sarah for the hell of it. I spent a pleasant morning answering emails, and casually refreshed my browser again. I stopped, and grinned to myself widely.

Marinette came in to present me a chiffon blouse that she’d been working on for the past few days, and I pronounced it without fault, still smiling ear-to-ear. She eyed it and me doubtfully, and stalked out of the room without a word. I genially ignored her. My morning played out blissfully, and around noon I grabbed my bag and strolled out of my office, whistling _Here Comes the Sun_.

I entered the elevator and turned around to see Adrien and Marinette side-by-side – Adrien regarding me with utter confusion, and Marinette with outright suspicion. I waved at them and called out a friendly,

“Off to lunch, be back in a bit!”

The doors opened to the first floor, and I walked past Officer Raincomprix, flicked on my sunglasses, and cheerfully opened the door to a sea of reporters and cameras.

“ _Madame Fonda!”_

_Click! Click!_

_“Madame –!”_

_“Pouvez-vous commenter –“_

_Click! Click! Click!_

_“Que vouliez-vous dire quand –“_

I walked through the crowd and let myself feel a little important for a moment as they parted around me like the Red Sea, and gave them all friendly smiles.

“Can you confirm –“

I swiveled around at the accented English, and was met with gleaming eyes and curly brown hair.

“Oh hi there, dear!” I said cheerfully, taking my sunglasses off.

“Wonderful to hear some English for once, what can I do for you?”

“I thought you might appreciate it,” the girl responded with an excited grin, microphone in hand.

“Alya Cesaire, with _France 24_. I was just wondering if you could confirm for us – we just heard this morning from a Ms. Halvorsen rumors that you’ll be staying with _Agreste_ for good, and –“

“Oh dear, was that what she said?”

“Well,” Alya clarified, “She said that you informed her that Marc Jacobs requested you return for New York Fashion Week and you refused. Could you confirm that, at least?”

I smirked at her. “Ohhh, I couldn’t _possibly_ return to New York for anything but the most _important_ business. Thank you so much for your interest, though,” I said sincerely, and resumed my walk towards Adrien’s limousine.

“Wait, just one more thing!” Alya cried out, and she tucked her microphone away and waved her cameraman off, running up to me.

“Could you say hi to Marinette for me? I haven’t heard from her in a long time, and I wasn’t sure…” she said quietly, under the bustle of the other reporters.

I paused at the door and looked back at her, a little surprised. Marinette hadn’t mentioned her before.

“Ah, you’re friends with her?”

She gave me a silent affirmative, and I considered for a second.

“She’s a little lonely, but doing very well recently. I’ll make sure to let her know you said hello, Ms. –“

“Alya Cesaire, please. And thank you!” she said earnestly.

I stepped into the car, had Gorilla take me to a small café some ways off from _Champs-Élysées_ , and pondered the young reporter over lunch.

I returned still in a good mood. The rest of _Agreste_ had found out, finally – Lizzie had let me know when her interview was airing, so I’d planned everything accordingly. And by now Alya’s segment had probably aired too. I was quite pleased with myself.

Adrien greeted me wryly, with a “ _Bien joué, Madame._ ”

Marinette looked at me with no small amount of awe.

“I can’t believe you actually did that!” she whispered to me.

“He had it coming. And this’ll be good for business too,” I said pragmatically.

And then I grinned at her.

“But babe you ain’t seen nothin’ yet.”

I sauntered back to my office, and heard Marinette whisper at Adrien for a translation of my parting jab.

“There’s more?” I heard her ask in shock.

I took it easy that afternoon. I played some solitaire on my computer and waited. Hopefully they wouldn’t delay the announcement – I’d requested the date and time for it after the contract had been written. But, turns out, Project Runway knows when to capitalize, just as planned.

 

**JEANINE “JEANNIE” FONDA ANNOUNCED AS RUNWAY CONSULTANT AND STYLIST FOR PROJECT RUNWAY FINALE 2018**

**JEANINE FONDA SNUBS MARC JACOBS? “NO INTENTIONS TO RETURN TO NEW YORK EXCEPT FOR ‘IMPORTANT BUSINESS’”**

 

I looked at the headlines, posted back-to-back, and marveled in the satisfaction they brought.

This time I ignored all the reporters, and the Gorilla took me straight home. I slept like a baby angel.

 

* * *

 

Friday morning, I went to work and was met with lots of collegial cheer. Everyone always dreams of giving it to a shitty boss, you know? Even Gabriel was pleased. He’d stopped by my desk and actually _smiled_ before tossing me a paper – _Agreste’s_ stock had jumped three percent after my shenanigans. Being petty had never felt so good.

I’d spent a lot of time talking to Sarah last night, and the topic of Marinette had come up rather prominently. Sarah wanted to meet her badly, and begged me to bring her to New York with her in January. I’d dismissed it initially… but Sarah had come up with some pretty solid backing for her argument. Marinette would be able to see how things worked backstage. She’d get to experience a real runway environment. She’d build connections. And most importantly, _‘She’d get to hang out with me yo. SOLD, AMIRITE’_

Yeah, I was sold. I didn’t see her until late that day, and called her into my office to talk about it.

“Marinette,” I said to her, “I’ve got a really great opportunity for you, if you’re at all interested.”

I told her all about it. She’d get to see all the events, be backstage for any that she was interested in. When I was busy, Sarah and Lizzie would show her around. If she wanted to be introduced to anybody, we could help translate for her.

She brightened like a blossoming sunflower, only to wilt almost immediately.

“Oh, I would absolutely love to, I just… I just need to check a few things, to make sure if I can… make it work,” she replied vaguely.

“Oh,” I said in surprise. “Are you going to be working at home in the bakery? Or spending time with your family? I wouldn’t have asked if it was Christmas time, but I thought January would be okay…”

But Marinette was already frantically waving her hands.

“No no no! It’s not that at all, I would cancel everything to go, it’s just that… well, I need to ahh, check my ahh......... wardrobe,” she said almost inaudibly, head down-turned in shame, crestfallen.

I was instantly ashamed of myself. I’d been perplexed at her for even thinking of refusing, and that reaction was callous and elitist and I couldn’t berate myself more for it.

_Of course she can’t afford two weeks of high-end clothing. Of course she can’t go without it._

Marinette couldn’t just show up to New York Fashion Week without any of the year’s lines in her wardrobe. And of course she couldn’t possibly work to afford it within the year. And –

_And she won’t even think to ask for help._

“Marinette please look at me.”

She bit her lip and glanced up at me, but couldn’t keep the eye contact. I doggedly continued.

“You’re going to grab your things, and then we’re going to go back to my hotel. And you’re going to pick out a dozen outfits from my closet –“

“Jeannie I can’t –“ Marinette began distraughtly.

“–no, no, _chérie_ , I am not done yet and I am not interested in hearing your protests. You are going to pick out twelve outfits from my closet, six American and six French. And then we will stop by the tailor and make sure they fit, _parfaitement_. And then you are going to start on your first real assignment from me. I want four outfits from you, I don’t care if they’re old designs or new, I just want them looking polished and _damn_ good. Two for you, two for me. And you will have a little over two months to do it. And I will help you as much as you need me. And we will look _glorieux_ together and _Marinette Dupain-Cheng_ I will not hear _one word_ of you returning any of those clothes to me, because I will certainly not return what you make for me.”

Marinette’s face was cycling through emotions like an old radio gone haywire. She opened and closed her mouth more than once, vocal chords desperate to sound, but all that she could vocalize was silence; and eventually, overwhelmed, she short-circuited.

Her face crumpled as she inhaled and exhaled, and she furiously wiped at little streams as she struggled to speak, but in vain. It was as these sorts of things always go – a lost cause, from the moment she tried to overcome herself, not to feel.

I sighed for her – with her – in sympathy, and walked over to her.

“Oh come here, darling.”

She stepped into my embrace and shook and mumbled and sobbed.

“This, this is so emb-embarrassing…” she choked out eventually.

“Nothing to be embarrassed for, _chérie._ ”

“I don’t even kn-know why I’m c-crying.”

“It’s okay, just let it out. Just let it out.”

“I s-should be thanking you and I j-just can’t stop –“

“It’s okay, darling, just talk to me.”

“It’s just, just, b-been _so awful_ here these p-past two years.”

“I know, I know.”

“Just, just, just, n-nobody gave a _shit_ about some s-stupid little c-clumsy junior designer–”

“I know, I’m here. I’m here.”

“–who can’t, can’t ever do a-anything right”

“Marinette that is just the critic on your shoulder speaking. We’ve all got one and you just have to tell her to shove it up her–“

“–who c-can’t even talk to a s-stupid _boy_ she’s known since m-middle school without–”

“You can and I have seen you do that and so many other things so well, Marinette. You are just feeling a little overwhelmed with everything and that’s okay.”

“I-I-I just d-don’t understand why y-you’re being so k-kind–”

“You are a wonderful girl, Marinette, and it’s going to be okay, _you’re_ going to be okay.”

“–or, or why you’re w- _wasting_ your time with me”

“Marinette, you are _not_ a waste of time. Say it with me.”

“–I just, I don’t”

“ _Dites-le-moi_ , Marinette. _Je ne suis pas une perte de temps._ ”

“………………. I’m – I’m n-not a waste of time.”

“Not to me, Marinette. To the critic on your shoulder. Tell her _how dare you say that about me_. Tell her she says that just to be cruel. Tell her how disgusted you are with her for saying such things. Now say it again.”

“ _Je ne suis PAS une perte de temps_ ,” Marinette spat, her eyes furiously glinting with tears.

“And maybe you don’t believe it right now but you have to keep saying it, Marinette, until you do.”

Her tears slowly, slowly subsided, and I let her cry it out on my shoulder until she’d cried herself dry.

Then I pulled her over to my desk, and reached inside a drawer for a bottle of eye drops, and handed them to her along with a bundle of tissues.

“Clean yourself up. We are going to stop for some hot chocolate, and then we are going to get you some clothes.”

 

* * *

 

We spent the rest of the daylight hours picking things out for her. Marinette’s eyes bulged initially at the price tags on my outfits, still yet to be removed.

“That’s what’s expected if you want to be anything of a leading voice in the business, commercially,” I told her tiredly.

“Honestly Marinette, I think it’s much better to be independent. Have your own little boutique, carve out a niche. Not always be accountable to everyone. But you have a while before you need to make any of those decisions.”

Once she’d relaxed a little more, she was like a kid in a candy shop. I gave her a Chanel gown to try and she giggled the whole way through it. I asked her what was so funny and she quieted, before giving me a small smile.

“I never would have thought I’d get to wear one of these, ever.”

“Well,” I replied, “Now you own one.”

I mean, she looked _damn_ good in it.

We ended up finishing around seven. I took her measurements and hung everything she’d picked out to the side to send to the tailor later, and we went to get some dinner, where I had to grill her a little more.

“Now Marinette,” I lectured, pointing my fork at her, “It is Friday night. You probably want to start working on those outfits right away, but you’re not allowed to do that.”

Marinette blushed sheepishly – yeah, I could see that coming a mile away.

“Do you have a friend who would go see a dumb movie with you tomorrow? And I mean the dumbest one you can possibly find. You need a break,” I said sternly.

Marinette looked a little sad, and took a while to reply.

“You know Jeannie, I’ve spent so much time the past two years trying to really make it, I haven’t even really spoken to a lot of my old friends in a while.”

_Ahhh._

“You don’t happen to have a friend named Alya, do you?” I asked.

Marinette looked up in surprise.

“She worries about you, you know. She asked about you after interviewing me about Marc Jacobs yesterday.”

She picked at her food, and eventually looked up to respond.

“It was just – it was just really difficult, because Alya is – she got a real head start on her career in journalism because she was obsessed with _Ladybug_ and Chat Noir when they first appeared.” She said the last a little sardonically.

“Our old school had a really high Akumatization rate so she was sort of lucky in a weird way. She had the best coverage of Akumas as a high schooler, and so everyone was scrambling to hire her,” Marinette continued. She sounded proud, but she continued to poke at her food.

“I just had a hard time talking to her when I felt like I wasn’t really succeeding at all, compared to her,” she finally admitted.

“First junior designer at _Agreste_ ,” she snorted. “Half the people didn’t even know my name until you showed up.”

I was still pretty unhappy with that. She’d really been left out to dry, through no fault of her own.

“Go talk to her. Go see a movie with her tomorrow. She worries about you,” I said. Then I smiled.

“Then do it again on Sunday with Adrien.”

“Oh god no,” Marinette replied deadpan.

“Tell him Jeannie ordered you to ask him out to a dumb movie.”

She smiled shyly at me. “Just like that?”

“Just like that. Blame it all on the mean lady who kept throwing out your designs.”

Marinette grinned, then. “Word for word,” she promised.

“I’m serious,” I said. “And don’t touch your sketchpad. Don’t even _think_ about fashion. Come Monday ready to work.”

“I promise,” she replied.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Marinette has been chronically stressed for a little too long a time.  
> It was unfortunately a little too easy for me to write that last scene. yeaaaahhh, life experience is sort of a thing. Who would have thought that being frequently incoherently sad in front of somebody might come in handy one day?
> 
> Also it merits being said that like – I am bullshitting a lot of stuff in this fic, but in general, if you see any like broadly applicable, cross-discipline-relevant artistic advice, it is probably very not bullshit. I have some /pretty/ good professors who are like Important Artistic AuthoritiesTM and their job is to be the best advice givers and they have been doing it for like many times longer than probably anybody on this website has been alive. So yeah I just shamelessly plagiarize them whenever possible.
> 
> …I know I glossed over the outfits, but I sorta wrote this all at 1am. I promise I’ll go over them in more detail in later chapters. I wasn’t even planning on writing until the weekend because school has started again, but I had ideas and things to put off so I did anyways. But the updates probably won’t be so quick anymore.  
> Hope you all enjoy!


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